# they’re going to die. the cats. the trees. the hands you’ve held so long they feel like extensions of your own. everything you love has already started leaving in quiet ways less bounce in the step, a long pause before eating, a voicemail never returned. you’d be a fool to forget it. but you’re not a fool. you just hoped maybe this time it would be different. spring flowers knew better and bloomed anyway. the mountain glaciers knew better and held on, still. they’re going to leave. all of them. for reasons that make sense, like time, and cells, and entropy. and for reasons that don’t, like wrong turns and quiet cancers and "we just grew apart." you’ll worry. of course you’ll worry. you’ll cry in kitchens and grocery aisles and when they don’t come to bed at the usual time. but your task is not to stop the clock. your task is to keep loving not in a desperate clutch, but in the way you water a plant already wilting. love like it’s the last time you’ll get to. because it might be. and if tomorrow they are still here, still breathing beside you, still limping through the hallway, then give thanks, quietly or aloud. and if guilt comes, if some part of you screams that you could have loved better then love that part too. love it for wanting. love it gently. don’t let fear steer the wheel. but let it whisper *pay attention.* this is a gift. not forever. but for now. and now is all love ever needed.